


Between One Heartbeat and the Next

by AvoidingAverage



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, First Kiss, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Just the Kanima, Kanima Venom, Love Confessions, M/M, Monster of the Week, POV Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Self-Sacrifice, Teen Wolf Crossover...sorta, Temporary Character Death, Witchers Have Feelings (The Witcher), You don't need to watch Teen Wolf to get it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-25
Updated: 2020-06-25
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:34:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24906169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvoidingAverage/pseuds/AvoidingAverage
Summary: Please.  Please, not this.Don’t make him listen to Jaskier’s voice beginning to strain in a way it never did on stage even as he continued to reassure Geralt.“It’s okay… Geralt, you’ll be okay.”Not without you.“You’re...gonna be fine in...just a little while.”You won’t.“ ‘s...not...so bad...like going to sleep.”Nononononopleaseno
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 39
Kudos: 953





	Between One Heartbeat and the Next

**Author's Note:**

> In the spirit of quarantine, I fell face first into a fandom I have never been a part of (Teen Wolf) and couldn't resist recreating the iconic pool scene that occurs between another pairing (Sterek) using the Witcher-verse. You don't need to be a fan of Teen Wolf to get into the story, I promise, but if you are, you might recognize some of the description for the monster.
> 
> Enjoy the angst as I hurt these boys in a new way!

It starts like any other hunt. 

They walk along a nameless road on the way to a town whose name will be forgotten within a few years of their departure. At his side, Jaskier hums a soft repetitive cadence, editing a tune as he walks. It’s comforting in a way that would have driven him to distraction a few years ago. Now, it settles some of the restlessness in his chest and lets him focus on the simple beauty of the woods around them and the dappled sunlight.

That sunlight pulls out the slight reddish tint of Jaskier’s hair that appears each summer. Geralt wonders how long it will be until threads of grey begin to trickle into the dark locks and feels a now familiar bolt of grief shoot through his soul. One day, Jaskier’s light will be snuffed out in the same way all humans must be and Geralt’s world will return to the shadows of what life had been before.

Before learning what it was like to watch the stars come to life over head as they tell stories and laugh at each reclaimed memory. Before learning that a human could look beyond the myths and realities of what a Witcher is to see the gentler soul lurking beneath. Before gentle hands and easy laughter. Before righteous fury and vicious retaliations against any who spoke against Jaskier’s White Wolf.

“Geralt?”

He blinks and turns to see the bard watching him with a slightly furrowed brow. Even now, the concern in his expression leaves Geralt a little breathless. “Are you okay?”

Geralt nods, forcing away his turbulent thoughts with the ease of long practice. “Just ready for a hot meal and a bath.”

“I knew I was beginning to bring you over to the side of the light,” Jaskier crows, eyes dancing with fond affection, “All it took was some rather pointed gifts and introducing you to proper skincare regimens and look how far you’ve come. Why, I bet you--”

The sound of unfamiliar footsteps distracts Geralt from Jaskier’s ramblings and he looks down the road in time to see the woman come into sight at the bend of the road ahead. It only takes a few moments before she sees them walking towards her. Surprisingly, she doesn’t falter on her path, even after Geralt’s pale hair and gleaming weapons are noticeably present.

If anything, she seems to speed up until she’s standing just in front of Roach and he’s forced to pull the mare up short to avoid running her over. 

By now, Jaskier has faltered from his previous discussion topics and focuses on the older stranger. “Good lady,” he greets with a flourish, “may we help you in some way?”

The woman’s face tells a tale of a hard life in the remote village she calls home. Scars from a pox of some sort dot a skin marked with sunspots and wrinkles that create deep grooves. Thinning grey hair is pulled away from her face in a tight bun that matches the sharp lines of her clothing and the dour expression.

She ignores Jaskier in favor of staring up at Geralt. “You a Witcher?”

Geralt nods slowly, already sensing where this discussion will lead. He’s done this dance countless times since he took up the Path. 

“I have a job for you. A beast that needs killing.”

“Then you’re in luck because you’re in the presence of the famed White Wolf,” Jaskier brags, looking as proud as any bard has a right to be when his songs seemed to be slowly chasing away the fear that used to preface any interaction Geralt had with humans. “He can kill anything that dares prey on humanity.”

Silver for monsters. Steel for humans.

He slings a leg over Roach’s side so he can slide to the ground and face her directly. “What kind of beast? Can you describe it?”

The older woman’s voice is flat enough that Jaskier winces, just out of sight. “It started taking livestock a few months ago. Never the same farm twice--almost like it knew that would attract attention,” she begins, “At first, the men thought it was wolves, or perhaps a bear come down from the mountains early. A few of the older among us told stories of a creature of stories and fable back to wreak vengeance on the humans who hunted down its kind.”

Jaskier’s eye alight at the dire description of the stranger and Geralt can see the lyrics and rhymes that are beginning to form in his mind. Some dramatic ballad of love and loss, no doubt. It wouldn’t be long before he pulls out his notebook and begins to write before he loses the thread.

“They set traps. All kinds of traps: for boar and bear, hounds and wolves. After a week without any more missing livestock, one of the trappers went out into the hills to check what they’d caught.” Eyes gone grey with age move up to meet Geralt’s squarely. “He never came back.”

“Did they find the body?” Jaskier asks, some of his excitement disappearing beneath the tale of loss.

“The next group sent out were able to find the pieces of poor Brom. Not much, but some,” she sighs--the first sign of emotion beyond determination--and dusts away an imaginary mark on her shirt while she gets her reaction under control, “They were attacked. Only one made it back.”

“What did he see?” Geralt asks.

“A beast. A monster of scales and talons that drips with poison,” she recites. “It subdued them somehow so that it could eat them later. The boy who escaped died later anyway.”

“How?”

“He was paralyzed. By the time he made it to the village, he couldn’t walk--was barely able to speak. The healer tried to help him, but it didn’t do any good. He just...stopped breathing,” she swallows painfully. “The only injury he had was barely a scratch--not enough to explain his death. The healer thinks it was a poison of some sort. One that paralyzes the victims so completely that their hearts stop or they can’t breathe.”

A monster that could keep its victims paralyzed until it finished them off...

Geralt frowns. The description doesn’t match any of the creatures he’d studied under Vesemir or out in the field. It’s dangerous to head into a hunt without knowing what he was facing, he knows. Such things balanced already uneven scales in favor of the creature. It had cost more than a few Witchers their lives.

When the woman speaks again, he knows he’ll do it anyway.

“It took my girl next. Straight from her bed.” She blinks and a tear splatters unnoticed against the earth at her feet. “Adara wasn’t the type to go wandering on her own--no matter what our mayor claims. We were supposed to go visit my cousins the next day until it was safer.”

The grief feels strong enough to drown in and he has to breathe carefully to avoid slipping beneath the surface.

Instead, he focuses on the ragged breathing of the man at his side and the familiar rhythm of his heartbeat. He fills his lungs with the scent of meadow grass and sunshine, wood oil and chamomile. It comforts him like a child with their favorite blanket.

Geralt watches her reach into the satchel at her side to pull out a well-worn wooden box that she presses into his hands, lingering before she forces herself to release it. 

“Take this for payment,” she says, “It was meant to be my Adara’s dowry, but now it can be for her revenge.”

Jaskier steps closer, his body a line of warmth against his side. “What of your other children?” he asks gently, compassion in his eyes.

The woman’s fierce expression falters for an instance before she looks away.

“She was all that I had left.”

* * *

With the woman’s description as a guide, it was surprisingly easy to find the creature. All it took was heading into the foothills with his weapons hidden beneath his dark cloak. If the monster was as clever as the stories seemed to indicate, Geralt would not risk spooking it away from an outright attack by labeling himself a threat. 

Other than that, there isn’t much he can do to prepare for the fight awaiting him. He can’t be certain that the beast uses poison like the woman claimed, although he is careful to carry his usual antidote close at hand. It could be something telepathic or capable of mind control which would leave him mostly defenseless. Wits and weapons against primitive instinct.

The best he could do to protect himself is to leave Roach and Jaskier in a camp far away from the creature’s hunting grounds and make them swear to remain there until he returns.  _ If _ he returns. Jaskier at least knows this routine better than anyone else. He’ll stay away until his nerves get the better of him, but by then Geralt hopes to have this hunt ended.

He heads into the woods.

For a few hours, he is alone. The only other sounds are native to the evening shadows and the pieces of nature far away from the din of the city. His footsteps move smoothly in their midst, occasionally causing a pause in the night songs of the birds and insects when he moves too close to their hiding places.

Then, a sound that does not belong.

A matching absence of noise as some other predator began to trail along behind him. No wolf or bear would bother with the magic-tainted blood of a Witcher--not when easier prey were afoot--nor, would a curious deer or rabbit risk getting too close. He is careful not to let the rhythm his steps falter with anticipation of the attack he knows is coming. It isn’t natural for him to play the part of prey--but then, nothing about him is natural anymore.

In the end, it doesn’t take long for the brief peace to disappear.

He ducks low to avoid the lunging teeth that were aimed at the vulnerable back of his neck and uses the movement to draw his sword free from its sheath. It flashes in the bright orange of sunset a moment before he manages to slice into the muscle of the creature’s leg, missing the hamstring by only a few inches. The scream it releases is harsh enough to make his eardrums rattle.

Geralt takes a few steps back, trying to get an eye on the creature he’s been sent to kill. As he does, he realizes that the promise of intelligence that the old woman had described was certainly true. Somehow it had herded him along a narrow, but deep ravine that would be filled with water when the snows melted. It limited the avenues for escape to deeper in the woods or back down the rugged trail towards the town miles below.

At first glance, the creature had the long legs and bipedal stance of a human, but that was where the similarities ended. Dark green scales tinted an unhealthy yellow covered the creature’s body with darker colorations sweeping up from the legs into the torso and onto the long tail curling behind it. Claws tinted brown with dried blood extend from an additional joint that makes its fingers inhumanly long.Its rib cage was sunken in as though it was still starving even after killing so many people and animals and saliva dripped from the fangs that extended in rows from its gaping maw. Bright yellow eyes fixed on him with vicious intent and inhuman intelligence as they circled each other. 

He is forced to take the details in at a glance before they meet again with a bodily thud. This close, a sharp scent teases at his senses and there is an instinctive urge to get far, far away from the source. It makes his eyes burn when the beast snaps his teeth at Geralt’s throat, eager to rip open his throat. The spittle that lands against his skin burns and tingles in a way that makes him feel like hives are breaking out along the exposed area.

Poison then. Potent too, if he’s already feeling the effects.

It makes this battle infinitely harder, adding to the speed that is more than a match for his own and the strength that is enough to send him sprawling against the trunk of a tree. He ducks before it can go for his head again and rewards the effort with a quickly cast Aard that forces it back several steps. 

But it’s still not enough.

Geralt feels the creature’s claws rake across his side with the same amount of horror as a cheating spouse might face their partner. Only this was an ending he’d been expecting ever since he took on the mantle of Witcher.

All it takes is a scratch.

The poison works quickly. Already he can feel his muscles in his core beginning to tremble as they go numb. Even with his enhancements, no Witcher is truly immune to effects of the monsters they hunted, but they are enough to keep him upright long enough to avoid the blow that would’ve ripped his head free from his spine. Maybe if he had the time to wait for it to work through his system he would survive, but there was no way he’d have the time to manage it now.

It shrieks in rage and Geralt manages a sloppy slice with his silver sword that forces it back again. 

Breathing is becoming more difficult now and takes a concerted effort. He’s panting, shivering like he’s been running for leagues instead of just a few steps. Sweat drips down his back beneath his armor to mingle with the blood from his injury. 

His body is becoming a prison. There’s a joke in this, he thinks, something about being trapped within the implications of his body since he finished the Trials. It’s a cruel twist of fate to die alone choking on his own breath only months after he’d finally reunited with Jaskier. 

He widens his stance, trying to force himself to remain upright for as long as possible. It doesn’t take a Witcher’s training to know that he’ll be dead as soon as he hit the ground. The creature doesn’t move any closer, content to wait for the poison to do its job.

Geralt is running out of time.

Each breath, each blink is a battle of monumental proportions. His arms feel like lead weights and he can’t feel his fingers wrapped around the hilt of his sword. When it falls, it’s almost a relief because now he can allow the weight to drop and focus on keeping his feet under him. 

The lizard creature leaps forward and sends him to the ground with a blow that feels distant. His breath wooshes out of his lungs and is replaced by the weight of the beast on top of him. Claws scrape across the leather of his armor, searching for the flesh beneath. Geralt manages a weak Quen shield that keeps them from sinking deeper. That much poison in his system would only speed up the death that he can feel practically hovering at the edges of his vision.

It leans forward, triumph in its eyes, and opens its mouth slowly, ready for the strike that will end this. Geralt glares back at it, unwilling to go quietly to his end. Not when it meant leaving Jaskier behind.

He thinks of the words that have hung on the tip of his tongue countless times. Three simple words that would change everything. 

He stares up at the sky and wishes it was the blue that has haunted him ever since Posada. Ever since Jaskier chose to ignore every hateful warning and centuries worth of prejudice to follow in Geralt’s wake. He deserved better than a life tainted by Geralt’s sins. And yet, he stayed.

And once again, Geralt will leave him behind.

The sky is blocked by the beast’s head as it relishes the helplessness of his prey and Geralt feels its weight settle onto his chest, forcing him to struggle even more just to stay alive a little longer. It shifts as it raises its hand to rip through the buckles of his armor to expose the scarred skin beneath. Claws brush gently over his chest, unwilling to use more of its paralytic when it could mean ending Geralt’s suffering too quickly.

_ “NO!” _

The shout is enough to distract the beast before it can close its jaws around Geralt’s throat. They both flinch and turn towards the sound, but not before something slams bodily into his attacker and sends it tumbling across the leaf littered ground.

Geralt is helpless to do anything but lay on the ground forcing air in and out of his lungs as the fight continues just out of his line of sight. There’s another roar from the beast and--

“Stay the fuck away from him!”

A voice as familiar as the sun in the sky cuts through the sounds of the struggle.

And suddenly, it isn’t difficult to keep his heart beating.

He spasms on the ground, twisting awkwardly until he can see the fight continuing between the bard and the beast.

Jaskier’s red doublet is backlit by the dying sky as he is outlined against the drop off that marks the ravine. He stands like a warrior of song and legend with Geralt’s silver sword held in both hands. The beast circles and herds him back against the edge, eager to end this one way or the other. Ready to end the night with two victims instead of the one.

There is no fear in Jaskier’s expression, only the same fierce determination that sends him tumbling into every fight and drama that begins with someone foolish enough to curse Geralt’s name. He should never have expected the man to acknowledge his mortality even with his death staring him in the eyes with malevolent intent. If Jaskier chose to stay with him after the mountain, he wouldn’t remain in safety while Geralt faced danger alone.

“Jas...kier…” he forces out, but the bard doesn’t look away from the creature moving closer.

“Come on, you great ugly bastard,” he dares, “Come get me.” Jaskier’s right foot hits the edge of the ravine and he falters, his balance teetering for one heart-pounding moment before he rights himself.

It’s all the opening the beast needs.

It pounces, claws reaching out with lethal intent and eyes fixed on his target. They lock together for a brief moment where Geralt cannot make out where the beast begins and the human ends.

Another roar of triumph is cut short by a wet gurgle.

Then Jaskier stands alone against the cliff where the creature fell, panting and watching his foe disappear in the rocks below.

Relief practically chokes Geralt as he watches Jaskier slowly straightens and lets Geralt’s sword fall to the ground with a thud. He watches for a moment longer--like he needs to ensure the creature was dead--before he turns back to Geralt. 

Even backlit by the fading daylight and streaked with dirt, Jaskier’s face is beautiful in its savage satisfaction. He takes a step towards the fallen Witcher and Geralt’s heart soars. 

“You’re okay,” Jaskier says roughly, “You’re going to be okay now. You and your...witchery enhancements will keep you alive, won’t they.” He coughs like he swallowed something wrong and shakes his head quickly. “You’re...going to be okay.”

Unable to force his lips to form words, Geralt manages a small nod.

“Couldn’t let you die,” the bard says in response to the frown and accusation on the Witcher’s face. He looks pale and shocky with leftover adrenaline and there’s a bone deep need to reach out and cradle the bard to him until he can breathe away the panic that manifested the moment he realized who had come Jaskier’s hand reaches up to his arm like he was swatting at a bug and Geralt feels his relief die a quick death.

There’s a tear in the bright red fabric that’s slowly darkening with the blood seeping out of a long cut.

Instantly, horrified golden eyes dart up to meet blue and Jaskier gives him a crooked smile. “At least I killed him first…”

Geralt can only stare at him, gasping for air and trying to force his body to move, watching the bard collapse heavily into the leaf litter just a few feet away from Geralt. His position on the ground only lets him see a portion of his right arm and legs, twitching occasionally like he is still trying to get to his feet. This close, Geralt can hear the heartbeat still thundering in the other man’s chest beginning to slow over the thoughts shrieking in his mind.

_ Please. Please, not this. _

Don’t make him listen to Jaskier’s voice beginning to strain in a way it never did on stage even as he continued to reassure Geralt. 

“It’s okay… Geralt, you’ll be okay.”

_ Not without you. _

“You’re...gonna be fine in...just a little while.”

_ You won’t. _

“ ‘s...not...so bad...like going to sleep.”

_ Nononononopleaseno _

He wants to howl, to rage and scream until somehow he can make this right. Like he can force the gods to return the life that Jaskier should have left into his chest and soothe away the pains that Geralt had inadvertently caused him. It should have been him. It should be  _ him _ dying here on the forest floor. Not Jaskier. He was supposed to  _ protect _ him. Even with all of his anger fueling him, all he can manage is a sound close to a whimper.

It still isn’t enough to miss the heartbeat becoming faint enough that he has to strain to hear it.

Jaskier’s words are barely more than choking gasps now and Geralt can smell the salt of his tears mixing with the liquid burning in his own eyes. “I love you...you know. Always have,” his voice falters on the last word before his breath shudders out of him in a wave that makes something in Geralt panic.

He strains his ears for the sound that he can’t survive without. The lullaby of countless nights in bug ridden inns and under starry skies.

_ Thump thump _

_ Thump thump _

What little relief he feels at the sound of Jaskier’s slow heartbeat is tempered by the knowledge that he’s running out of time. The poison will begin to paralyze Jaskier’s limbs before it eventually works its way into his heart and lungs. No amount of foolhardy bravery or determination will be enough to stop the death that is creeping through the bard’s veins.

_ Thump thump _

Geralt has to get him to healer. Maybe they could slow the rate of the poison if they learned from the other victims.

_ Thump thump _

_ You won’t reach the village in time,  _ a cruel voice in his mind adds _ , not before he stops breathing. _

He has to do  _ something _ . Maybe if he uses a little of his White Honey potion, it’ll offset the poison long enough to find help. He’s forgotten what true helplessness feels like after so many years on the Path. Even injured, he is still stronger than any human could hope to be and all it takes to defend himself is a subtle hand gesture. It’s a cruel reminder that all a Witcher 

_ Thump...thump _

Regret joins the poison in his veins and he tries frantically to pour strength into his numb limbs. He can’t let this happen. He can’t live in a world where Jaskier is dead and buried because of his own mistakes. After everything he got wrong, he  _ has _ to get this right.

_ Thump ….. thump _

Geralt focuses all his strength into moving, feeling his own sluggish heart rate slowly getting faster. He manages to twitch one arm a few inches to the left and feels a flash of hope when he finally is able to feel the scrape of leaves under his fingertips. It must be working through his system now and he feels his lips twitch in a fierce smile. He can do this. He  _ must _ do this.

Thump ………. Thump

His fingers dig furrows in the dirt and his heels press against the ground until the muscles in his thighs and calves begin to burn. He pants, trying to force his heart to speed up by mimicking adrenaline. It makes his ears rush with the sound of blood and, for a moment, he panics and thinks Jaskier’s heart has stopped beating while he was busy trying to fucking turn over. The quiet rhythm is so faint that he has to strain to make it out. 

He manages to twist his head just enough to make out the familiar curve of Jaskier’s cheek only a few feet away. One hand is stretched out towards Geralt like the bard was trying to reach him even as his strength failed him. Blue eyes stare blankly up at the sky like, like he was--

“Jas,” Geralt grunts and repeats when there is no response.

_ Thump _

“ _ Jaskier _ .” 

His arms are moving now, but he’s weaker than he’s ever been before. It takes him two tries to get his knees under him and crawl forward a few feet. 

It takes him a minute before he realizes that the only sound in the clearing is from himself.

His head snaps up and he stares at Jaskier’s body with horror. “No, no.  _ NO _ ,” he shouts, “Jaskier!”

Then he’s dragging himself across the remaining space to drag numb fingers over a face that isn’t moving.  _ Why isn’t he moving?  _

Jaskier is always in motion. His hands direct symphonies and build spells to weave over his audience until they’re ensorcelled. He moves and dances in their midst like the joyous fae of children’s stories. Bright and blazing like a sun in their midst.

Geralt’s breath is heaving and stuttering like his lungs have gone sideways. He grabs at the front of Jaskier’s ridiculous doublet and shakes him until his head lolls limply. The bard’s eyes stare up into the darkening trees without taking in the shadows that he loved to analyze or commenting on the stars beginning to dot the sky above them. Geralt tries slapping at his cheeks to get a reaction, but Jaskier doesn’t even blink.

_ Th..ump… _

“No, no you don’t get to die on me, you bastard,” Geralt seethes, settling over the other man and pressing his hands against his chest, “Not like this.”

He presses his hands over Jaskier’s rib cage, mimicking a maneuver that he’d seen a healer try on a boy that had been dragged down by drowners years ago. It had taken fifteen minutes with the mother weeping beside him before the boy finally coughed up a lungful of water and began to cry. Geralt had nearly cried then, too.

He counts in his head. The pattern helps him avoid thinking about how difficult it is to move or how tired he is. 

At thirty, he leans down and tries to fill Jaskier’s lungs with oxygen from his own. He tries not to think that this will be the only time he presses his lips to the bard’s.

At one hundred and twenty, his legs are strong enough to balance his weight more firmly over the man, but it doesn’t seem to matter. Because Jaskier still isn’t moving.

He tries to calculate how long it would take before the creature’s poison cycled through a human blood stream. Was Jaskier trapped like Geralt had been? Unable to move, but hearing and seeing the world continuing around him?

Just in case, he begins to speak. 

“You were supposed to stay at camp.”

27...28...29...30. Breath.

“You never listen, do you? I don’t know why I ever thought you would. It’s why I always leave Roach in charge.”

27...28...29...30. Breath.

“Come  _ on _ , Jaskier. Who’s going to complain about the blood in my hair when I come back from a hunt if you don’t?”

28...29...30. Breath.

“Yennefer will never let you live it down if you die before me. She’s convinced  _ I’m _ the dumbass in the relationship.”

29...30. Breath.

“I can’t do this by myself again. Don’t leave me alone again.”

Time becomes meaningless. All he knows is the rhythms of his hands against Jaskier’s chest and the silence that continues to linger in the woods around them. No animal dares to come any closer to the scent of grief and desperation. Even if they had, Geralt wouldn’t have noticed--all he can see is the way Jaskier’s skin is turning pale in the moonlight.

His voice goes hoarse in the chilly night air as he continues to speak. When he runs out of things to say, he repeats the bard’s name over and over again. He hunches over Jaskier in a feeble attempt to keep him warm as night falls, but he’s too afraid to stop his compressions to cover the bard with his cloak. His own body is shaking from the effort of remaining hunched over in this position and the strain from his own efforts to heal.

It doesn’t matter.

Jaskier doesn’t move.

There’s a cynical part of his mind that’s telling him to accept the truth that he doesn’t want to hear--Jaskier is dead. Whatever window of time that was open for rescue or healing had long since gone. He wasn’t even sure if performing the same tactic used on a drowned child would even work to continue pumping his heart. Maybe the only reason Jaskier’s skin wasn’t cold to the touch was because Geralt continued to press against him.

In contrast, the thought of letting go, of letting Jaskier go, is unfathomable. 

How is he supposed to walk back to the village and saddle Roach without looking at the extra pack and the lute case that Jaskier left behind? How was he supposed to clear his mind after a long hunt without Jaskier’s rambling stories and anecdotes? How was he supposed to ever enter a tavern without thinking about--

_...thump...thump…. _

The sound of a heartbeat is so faint and unexpected, he almost loses his rhythm. He stares down at Jaskier with near-painful hope blooming hot and bright in his chest. He holds his breath, waiting.

_ Thump...thump. _

Geralt makes a raw sound that he doesn’t try to over analyze and grins, wild and near-manic. “Come on, Jas. Come on.”

_ Thump thump. _

He doesn’t stop his compressions until the rhythm returns to the sluggish pattern he recognizes as sleep. It takes all his effort to pull his hands away from Jaskier’s chest to see if his heart would continue to beat without his assistance. He can’t quite bear to let go yet so he settles for running his fingers through the dark silk of his hair and raises the bard up so he can cradle him in his lap.

Jaskier’s eyelids flutter, eyes moving back and forth beneath the lids like he’s dreaming and Geralt is so relieved he can barely breathe through it. Tears drip down his cheek to land on the collar of his shirt, but he ignores them--too terrified to look away and risk losing Jaskier again.

“Jaskier,” he whispers, unable to resist the siren’s call to see sky blue eyes look up at him. “Can you hear me?”

“Ger..alt?” 

The words are slurred like he’s been on a month-long bender, but Geralt finds himself choking back a sob at the sound. “You’re okay,” he says as he crushes Jaskier against his chest and shudders, “You’re okay.”

Jaskier’s fingers twitch feebly at his sides. “Wha...h’ppned?”

“You fought a fucking monster and nearly died.” Even now, he can barely breathe through his panic.

“Oh…”

Geralt wants to shake him. He loves him so fucking much.

“You do?” Jaskier says, a frown in his voice and it takes Geralt a moment to realize he’d said the thought aloud. Even less to realize he didn’t give a damn.

Instead, he presses his lips against Jaskier’s for the hundredth time that night and revels in the soft sigh that escapes them. He can’t resist brushing a second and a third kiss against them before he presses their foreheads together.

“I do. I really, really do.”

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed it! If this is your first time reading one of my stories and you liked it, check out my other works for more angst with happy ending-style fics. :)
> 
> If tumblr's your thing, you can also hang out with me @geraskierficrecs.
> 
> As always, your kudos and comments give me life! They make writing a million times easier and keep me from being lazy about new updates and ideas. <3 you guys.


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